


nothing much to shout about

by renaissance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Britpop, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Recreational Drug Use, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: In the summer of 1997, Zacharias Smith runs away from home and discovers sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll—not necessarily in that order. Or, the story of how Britpop comes to the magical world at just the right time.





	nothing much to shout about

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TobermorianSass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/gifts).



> a birthday gift! this fic wouldn't exist without its recipient \o/
> 
> title is from "mis-shapes" by pulp: _oh we weren't supposed to be, we learnt too much at school, now we can't help but see that the future that you've got planned out is nothing much to shout about_.
> 
> also, this is my 100th work on ao3. i guess you could say that's something to shout about!

There was no easier way to become invisible than to lose yourself in the crowds of the busiest place on Earth—and because Zach couldn’t make it to the Tokyo metro on such short notice, the London tube at rush hour would have to do. He did not strictly want to be invisible, but he felt it was the best course of action, given that his parents would soon realise he had run away and might very well put out the feelers via their contacts at the Ministry. London was a bit of a risky choice given that he was so close to the Ministry itself, but so long as he did no underage magic they’d have to way to trace him, and that was exactly what he wanted.

So—no magic. It was probably better for Zach to be around Muggles with everything that was going on right now. His wand was wrapped up tightly and duct-taped to the inside of his rucksack so he could feel it against his back as he walked. He’d spent the last of his Muggle petty change on that duct tape; this was going to get interesting.

At least he had somewhere to stay. Well. He had a door to knock on at the end of his trip from Victoria to Walthamstow Central, a trip he had taken only once before but which had thankfully stuck in his memory. And Michael would surely never be uncharitable towards a friend. Or a friend of a friend. Or someone who was in a couple of his classes, if that was all Zach was.

The train emptied out as it moved from London’s centre out to the suburbs, which had been Zach’s experience last time he was here too. He managed to get a seat, and moved his rucksack to between his legs. The idea of taking up so much space gave him a kind of perverse thrill; it was fine, the only other person in his bank of four seats was a gangly young man too. He had bleached hair and piercings and Zach’s first response to that was revulsion; his second was that he wouldn’t mind looking so ridiculous if it pissed off his parents as much as running away certainly would.

He’d left them a note to the tune of _I’m staying at a friend’s for summer, don’t come looking for me_ , and taken the first bus out of town that morning. If they wanted to get snippy at him for straying from their precious neutrality and the position it gave them at the very fringes of pureblood society, then fine. This was an old argument, and one Zach made more out of principle than conviction. He hadn’t even liked Dumbledore’s Army that much, but neither could he let them get away with dressing him down for it. He shouldn’t have bothered. Running away was the coward’s way out of a disagreement, though it took so much effort; being lazy and avoiding it in the first place would’ve been easier.

Now it was the evening, and Zach was tending towards exhaustion. If Michael didn’t let him in then Zach would single-handedly ruin all of his friendships—or at least turn Anthony against him, because Anthony was  more susceptible to Zach’s charms than Terry, at least. Or maybe Anthony was like that with everyone. Anthony also in London, but Zach didn’t know how to find him. He was starting to doubt his faith in where Michael lived, too.

He was starting to feel like he’d doze off—his stop was the last, he’d wake up—when, unprompted, the fellow across from his asked, “You a backpacker?”

Zach blinked at him.

“Oh, let me guess, no sprechen the English,” the stranger said.

“Fuck off,” Zach said. “Just not from these parts.”

The stranger scoffed. “I can hear that. What’s a nice posh kid like you doing in the suburbs?”

“Don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“If you’re heading out Walthamstow way, I can give you something to do.” Rifling in his messenger bag, the stranger pulled out a flier and handed it to Zach. “My band’s got a gig tomorrow night. Come have a listen.”

“Thanks,” Zach said, taking the flier. He wasn’t acquainted with Muggle music—wasn’t really acquainted with magical music either; it’d never been his thing. Might be worth it, though, for the real London experience. Imagine the look on his parents’ faces if they could see him in a crowd at a Muggle gig!

“We’re kind of like Blur,” the stranger continued, evidently proud of this fact.

Zach nodded like he understood. “Wicked. That’s my favourite band.”

“Mate, then you’ll love our stuff. See you there, yeah?”

Then the train pulled in at Blackhorse Road and Zach’s companion got off, leaving Zach alone with the flier. It didn’t look commercial or mass-produced—Zach wondered if Muggles had some way of printing things in their own homes. The gig advertised was for a band called The Shoplifters, playing at a local pub. They were clearly no Weird Sisters.

Not long after, Zach finally got to Walthamstow Central. Michael’s house was harder to get to than he remembered—or maybe he had misremembered the entire ordeal—but he did get there in the end, after trying a couple of doorbells and eventually having an old lady with lots of magical paraphernalia of dubious origin just behind her front door point him in the right direction. “The Corners are just two down that way, sweetie,” she said, and Zach repressed a shudder. So charitable of her. How gauche.

He rang Michael’s doorbell; it was answered by an older man, clearly Michael’s father. Looking Zach up and down, he said, “You lost?”

“Hello,” Zach said as politely as he could, “I’m a friend of Michael’s. I was wondering if he was in?”

“Just a second,” Mr Corner said. He turned around and called out. “Mike! Friend of yours!”

When Michael came to the door he said, “What the fuck, dad, Smith’s not my friend.”

“But you do know him,” Mr Corner said reproachfully.

“Yeah, guess so,” Michael said. “What’s the deal?”

“Things are rough with my parents,” Zach said. He didn’t need to add that it was mostly his fault. “Don’t suppose you have a couch I can sleep on for a while?”

Michael glared daggers at him. “How long?”

“For as long as he needs,” Mr Corner said. Zach was immensely grateful that at least one person in this house had some sense about them. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t; it’s Zacharias.” He turned back to Michael. Maybe it was best to hedge his bets here. “I’ll stay as long as I need to get in touch with Ant and ask him instead. Better?”

Now Michael’s scowl turned properly dark. “Ant’s travelling with his parents until August.”

“Travelling? At a time like this?”

Michael shrugged. “Guess you’d better come in and tell me what happened.”

Mr Corner nodded in approval, and Michael stepped aside to let Zach inside.

 

* * *

 

Michael’s sofa was nice—his parents’ cooking even better—but Zach hadn’t felt like his trip was truly worth it until he stepped into the pub where The Shoplifters were playing. Zach had managed to change some of his galleons for pounds and he’d paid the entry. The pub was smelly and sweaty and he could barely move for squeezing through bodies, and he loved it.

The guy Zach had met on the train was playing the drums. There were two guitarists, one of whom was also singing, a bassist, and a girl on some sort of electric piano. The sound they made was like nothing Zach had ever heard. It was fresher than the crap he heard on the radio his father kept in the study, all that sad warbling and mournful guitar noises. Zach had none of the technical terms—his musical education began with reading treble clef and ended with playing Mary Had A Little Lamb on the recorder—but he knew that this music had a beat and he knew it was what he had been waiting for. The Weird Sisters had nothing on this—this what the 1 had been waiting for, really. Where had this music been all of Zach’s life?

After the gig, he hung around. He wanted to let this band know that they had changed his life. Almost nervously, he went up to the stage, and he was saved by the drummer calling out to him.

“It’s my friend from the train! You made it. Man, that’s never worked before.”

The lead singer looked at him in disbelief. “Can’t believe you made a friend.”

“Yeah, he did,” Zach said, bolder than he felt. “Glad I came. You lot are pretty good.”

Why could he never say what he meant?

“Thanks,” the singer said. He stepped down from the stage and shook Zach’s hand. “I’m Rav; our marketing exec slash drummer who you met is Nick.”

One-syllable names. “I’m Zach.”

“Listen, Zach, we’ve got to clear out,” Rav said, “but we’re going to take the van down to a party in Barking, if you want to come.”

“He says it’s a party, but it’s more like all of us drinking and fooling around at Ethan’s place,” Nick said.

The lead guitarist, who must have been Ethan, gave them all the finger. Zach felt absolutely giddy to be included in its blast radius.

“I’ll come,” Zach said. He thought he’d better not tell them he was only recently seventeen and that he’d never had drinks or even really “fooled around” before.

The van Rav had mentioned was a biggish Muggle car with a lot of space in the back for all the band’s musical equipment, and a little more space in front for people to sit. Ethan drove, taciturn the whole way, and Rav sat up front with him, which meant Zach was crammed behind with Nick, the bassist Pete, and Jenny, who played the electric piano. Pete was queasy the entire way and kept leaning out the window to puke—thankfully, Zach was sitting at the other end.

Nick hadn’t been entirely correct when he said it wasn’t a party—through the open-curtained front windows, Zach could tell there were a fair few other people at Ethan’s place, a modest townhouse, and there was music playing loud. It was music like The Shoplifters had played, only better. The party was not for them. They bypassed the main front door and went to a studio room below street level. Zach helped to unload the drums and amplifiers from the back of the van and setting everything back up.

“This is where we rehearse,” Nick said. “We only take the gear out for gigs.”

“Which are few and far between,” Jenny chimed in. “You play anything, Zach?”

He shrugged. “Never really tried.”

“Pete’s going to be chucking for a while,” Jenny said, looking over her shoulder to the closed bathroom door. She had his bass guitar slung over her back, and set down the electric piano, which she had been balancing on her forearms, the power cord trailing at her feet. “Want to learn?”

“I don’t want to intrude—”

Rav reappeared with a brick of beer cans. He glanced at the bathroom too. “Looks like we’re pissing in the sink tonight. Come on, Zach. Pete’s not going to mind. He’ll be passed out in a while, anyway.”

“Will he be okay?” Zach asked.

“Had a bit much to drink before the gig,” Nick said. “He gets stagefright.”

“Here.” Jenny took the bass off her shoulders and handed it to Zach, along with a small plastic triangle which Zach had seen all the guitarists use to pluck at the strings. Helpfully, she added, “You at least know how the pick is used, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said. He put the strap over his own shoulders like a sash, and the bass balanced in front of him. It wasn’t as heavy as he’d imagined, but it did look longer from this angle. Then again, he was tall, so it wasn’t much of an inconvenience. Experimentally, he copied what he’d seen earlier in the night and twanged the pick against one of the strings.

Rav clapped him on the shoulder. “Your first note. That’s an E. You can read music, right?”

“Treble clef only,” Zach admitted.

“That’s fine,” Jenny said. “You can learn bass clef easily, it’s just a third down. Or you can skip that and go straight to guitar tabs.”

Zach nodded. He had no idea what a “third” or “tabs” were, but he was sure it would be fine.

“Why don’t we do learning by example?” Nick said. “Zach likes Blur. Parklife is easy enough.”

“Er—”

Now Zach was faced with a room full of musicians, in a band who allegedly sounded a lot like Blur, staring him down. Nick in particular looked aghast.

“Christ almighty, you snob. You don’t know Blur, do you?”

“I know _of_ them,” Zach said defensively, which he did, now.

“This is going to be a long night,” Rav said. He held out a beer. “You’d better drink up, Zach.”

Professor Sprout had once given all of Zach’s Hufflepuff cohort a talk about resisting peer pressure. This wasn’t pressure, he reasoned. The Shoplifters didn’t know he was underage, and if they did, they probably didn’t care either way. It could be worse—Ethan was sitting in the corner smoking something that Zach knew was absolutely not tobacco.

Zach took the beer and stuck the pick in his trouser pocket so that he could open the can. He took a swig, trying not to wince. It was bitter, like rotten bread. He supposed he would get used to it.

“Right,” he said. “Teach me, then.”

 

* * *

 

“Britpop, Michael.”

Michael looked up from whichever textbook he was reading, a disparaging look on his face. Whatever. He was the one reading a textbook over summer. Fucking Ravenclaws.

“What about Britpop?”

“It’s the name for that kind of music,” Zach said. “You know. The kind of music that’s—good. Better than the other shit.”

“Yeah, it’s better than the other shit,” Michael said, almost appreciative. “What, you only just discovered it?”

Zach settled himself down on Michael’s bed, since Michael had the only chair in his room. “I guess so. You know how I was out last night? I went to this gig because a guy gave me a flier for it on the tube—the band are called The Shoplifters.”

“Never heard of them,” Michael said.

“Yes, well, they invited me around to the lead guitarist’s place and tried to teach me to play the bass, although it didn’t go very well. We were all quite drunk. It was pretty spectacular.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “You made friends?”

“Just about,” Zach said smugly. “Anyway that’s not the point—we listened to some CDs, Blur I think, but obviously I don’t remember much, because of how drunk I got.”

“Hearing you talk, I’d almost say you’ve never been drunk before.”

“Do you have CDs or not?” Zach snapped. It was a rhetorical question. He could see the CD player on Michael’s desk.

Sighing, Michael got to his feet and fished a shoebox off the top of his bookshelf. “You said you listened to Blur? I’ve got a fair few Blur albums, a couple Pulp, one Suede… no Oasis, sorry…”

“Why do all these bands have one-word names?” Zach asked. “Is that a requirement to be a Britpop band?”

“Probably,” Michael said. “The Shoplifters should drop the ‘the’ if they want to get big.”

Michael took _Parklife_ out of its case and stuck it in the CD player. The first track had ringing guitars, light and fast bass, a kind of gleam to it. Zach remembered now, listening to this in the studio at Ethan’s place—it had felt the same, like making an incredibly important scientific discovery, then realising that everybody already knew about it, and why weren’t they talking about it all the time?

“I’ve got a couple other CDs you might like,” Michael said. “Stone Roses—there you go, that’s two words—and an album by some Welsh group that I’m pretty sure belongs to Wayne, I’ve just never given it back.”

“I need to listen to all of these. As many as possible. My musical education has clearly been lacking—the Shoplifters have another gig in a week’s time and I need to be one of the intelligentsia by then. Any way I can take your CD player into the living room? I don’t want to have to hang out in your room the whole time.”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual,” Michael said. “The CD player doesn’t shift.”

“I guess I’ll stay here, then.”

“You’re lucky I like this music too.”

They settled in for the afternoon and Zach picked a book at random off Michael’s shelf to pass the time. On the CD player, they worked through the first four Blur albums—“They’ve got a new one,” Michael said, “but I heard it’s shite,”—then onto Pulp after dinner, of which Michael only had the latest two—“Heard they were weird before.” He filled Zach in on the history of the scene, what it had to do with Muggle culture, and why you weren’t allowed to be a fan of Blur and Oasis at the same time.

By the time midnight rolled around, they were both lying on the floor with Suede on the CD player, and Zach was a different person.

 

* * *

 

“Got a surprise for you, mate,” Michael said.

He looked too happy for it to be a good surprise. Apart from that, Zach didn’t trust Michael as far as he could throw him, and he never liked surprises even on a good day. This could only end badly; Zach inclined his head to indicate that Michael should go on.

“I’ve been liaising with Justin. He’s coming down this afternoon to open up his townhouse in Chelsea, just for you.”

“Sick of me already?” Zach said sweetly.

Michael rolled his eyes. “You won’t stop listening to my records. You take too long in the shower. And my siblings think you’re—ugh, they think you’re _cool_.”

Zach grinned. “Well I don’t see how a townhouse in Chelsea can be any worse than this dump.”

“Watch it,” Michael said.

All things considered, it was a better surprise than Zach expected.

They were to meet Justin at a tube station in a posh suburb to walk together to the townhouse. Michael, in his infinite forbearance, agreed to escort Zach to the station—because if Zach had gone alone he would’ve gotten lost with no magic to help him, and Michael had some shopping to do. Despite his poor company, Zach was in a good mood. He was getting a whole townhouse to himself in a posh part of town.

But first, he had to accompany Michael on his errands.

“Lucky we’re around these parts anyway,” Michael said, “’cause there’s a shop I go to around here for guitar strings.”

“I beg your pardon?” Zach said. “Guitar strings?”

“Yeah, mine’ve been growing rust. I haven’t played in over a year.”

“But you play.”

Zach was almost offended that Michael had omitted this detail all those times they’d spoken about music. He hadn’t seen a guitar in Michael’s house, hadn’t seen a trace of anything musical except the CD player.

Michael narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, I play the bass, you play the guitar. We almost have a band.”

“Kevin plays the drums,” Michael said, contemplative. He snapped out of it a moment later. “I mean—Smith, you can’t play the fucking bass. You played once, and you were drunk. That doesn’t count.”

“I can learn. Where does Kevin live? Nearby?”

“No fucking way, I’m not telling you. We’re not starting a band.”

“No, not until we have a drummer. Don’t you worry. I’ll find some way to get in touch with Kevin. I’ll buy an owl if I have to.”

Despite Michael’s antipathy to the idea, Zach loitered around the basses in the music shop where Michael was buying his strings and looked at the prices. He could afford one with his parents’ money, but all he had on him were his savings, and they wouldn’t cover it. He’d need textbooks for the new school year.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Michael said.

“I’m not,” Zach said. He was definitely getting ideas.

With Michael’s shopping done, they headed to the station. It was awfully nice, Zach thought, of Justin to come down just to give him keys to a house. That was the kind of charity he was happy to accept.

Justin showed up wheeling a massive suitcase.

“Salutations, boys!” he shouted from the other side of the road, waving. “Ready for twenty-four hour party season?”

“Oh, Merlin,” Michael said. “I really had no idea he was planning on staying. I’m almost sorry for you.”

Zach shrugged. In for a knut, in for a galleon. He cleared his throat. “Salutations, good sir. I hear you are to be my host for the foreseeable future.”

Michael looked at him like he was mad. Hufflepuffs looked out for other Hufflepuffs, surely it wasn’t that hard to grasp.

“Yes indeed,” Justin said. He made it across the road at last and greeted Zach with open arms. “I’ve got a suitcase full of booze and a wallet full of boons. We’ll have a right laugh. I suppose you’ll be missing out, Corner.”

Zach smirked. This was getting better and better—never mind that he’d be stuck living with Justin now, instead of Michael. He lived with Justin all throughout the school year. He could cope.

“But do feel free to pop by for a tipple later, if you’re so inclined,” Justin said.

“Or to make music,” Zach added.

“Music?”

Michael began, “We are not—”

“We’re starting a band,” Zach said, very loudly. “Michael on guitar and me on bass.”

“He doesn’t even own a bass,” Michael said. “It’s a pipe dream.”

Justin, undeterred, clasped his hands together in delight. “Oh, a band! How delightful! Can I join? Not to boast, but I play a little recreational guitar myself. And if you need a singer, I was a boy soprano in the chapel choir before I came to Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Zach said. He could sing decently, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it while concentrating on the bass as well. And he didn’t want to give Michael the satisfaction of being their frontman. “Welcome aboard.”

“Do you have a name?” Justin asked.

“No,” Michael said, “because we’re not a band. Full stop. End of story. Zach doesn’t even have a bass.”

“Maybe we’ll start a band of our own. What say you, Zacharias?”

“I’m absolutely giddy for it,” Zach said.

“I’m leaving,” Michael said. “Good luck with your two-person band with no instruments. Smith, you have my number—call me when you’re drinking.”

Once they’d parted ways with Michael, Zach made eye contact with Justin’s massive suitcase. “Is it really only booze in there?”

“Oh, mostly,” Justin said. “A shirt or two. I suppose that if I run out of clothes I can just buy more.”

Zach stared at him.

“I’m kidding, of course! I keep a full wardrobe at the Chelsea house.”

“In many ways, that’s worse,” Zach said. Sometimes he forgot quite how rich Justin was. He fancied that the purebloods of Wiltshire had nothing on the Finch-Fletchleys, also of Wiltshire.

Justin was unperturbed. “Now, speaking of buying things, Michael mentioned you don’t have a bass.”

 

* * *

 

Zach’s bass was sleek and black—Justin had wanted to get him the red one, but Zach would sooner die than wear Gryffindor colours, so he had insisted on the black. Well, if Justin was going to be spending this amount of money on him, Zach figured he might as well make the most of it. When pressed, Justin would justify it by saying he had taken a liking to philanthropy. He also bought himself a semi-acoustic guitar, and amps for both of them. Zach couldn’t complain.

They set up a studio in the living room of the Chelsea townhouse, which was already furnished with a baby grand. The house was all brown brick and white paint, clean and modern inside; compared to Zach’s home, which was a cluttered magical mess, this was all Muggle. It felt good to be away from it all.

Justin had a collection of CDs, too. Zach wouldn’t have expected it of him. Where Michael was up-to-date with Britpop, Justin’s taste was firmly rooted in decades past, rock’n’roll from the 60s, disco from the 70s, pop from the 80s. Zach liked the rock’n’roll the best—he could listen to it and pick up on the bassline, which he would pick out very poorly but over and again until he had a reasonable approximation. He did this every evening, with Justin lounging on a couch or perched on the piano stool.

“Aren’t you tired of playing the same songs, though?” Justin pressed. This was the fourth night. He had been trying this every night since they set up the studio. “I mean, I’ve got nothing against _She Bangs The Drums_ , but I wonder if at this stage it’s just an excuse to show off that you can play fast.”

“I’m a beginner,” Zach said. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

“You’re a fast learner, though. How about we write a song?”

“For the band? It’s not worth much if it’s only the two of us.”

Justin made a face. “I object to that. Come, now—did you run away to London to stay your old, boring self?”

Zach stared. He was pretty sure he hadn’t told anyone he’d run away, strictly.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Justin continued. “I know you ran away. Michael mightn’t be able to see through your bullshit, but we’ve lived together for six years. I’m practically the world expert in Zacharias Smith.”

“You don’t know that. It could be Ernie. Or Wayne.”

Zach kept a straight face for all of five seconds before laughing at the very prospect. Justin joined in, so animatedly amused that he banged his elbow against the piano keys and played a cluster chord. The sound buzzed through the room even after their laughter died down. Justin had a wonderful laugh—Zach was becoming dangerously fond of him, and not just because Justin had spent so much money on him.

“Alright, yeah, I ran away,” Zach said. “I argued with my parents. About—you know. All of this.”

“I ran away too.” Justin rubbed the back of his head, self-conscious. “Well, not so much. I was planning to leave anyway when Michael called me up and told me about your situation.”

“What’s a rich kid like you got to run away from?”

“You’re asking the wrong question. What’s a Muggleborn like me got to run away from? Everything, Zach. I’m not stupid about what happens next. If this is to be war—well, I’ve warded the living daylights out of the ancestral home, made it unplottable and who knows what. I told my parents that if anyone asks after me, I’ve run off to Rome and become an alcoholic.”

“That’s half true.”

“Now, you mind what you say. We haven’t got into the good stuff yet. There’s all sorts in the cellar of this place.”

“Maybe we should make it unplottable too.”

Justin nodded. “Grand idea. But let’s start a band first, yes?”

“If you’re going to sing, you have to write the lyrics,” Zach said. “Otherwise no deal. I’ll keep playing _She Bangs The Drums_ until you’re sick of me.”

“Deal.”

Zach turned the lights out and the only glow that came in through the windows, thrown open for a summer  night’s breeze, was from the moon and the street outside. It was light enough for Justin to put pen to paper and for the two of them to squint over the words and hum melodies over chords on the guitar.

 

* * *

 

Michael was, all things considered, much less of a presence in Zach’s life these days. This was fine by Zach—Justin, however, was listless, a social butterfly with his wings clipped. He could not wait to return to Hogwarts to have a social life. A week in to their cohabitation, he finally invited Michael around for dinner and drinks. Dinner was takeaway, drinks were plentiful.

They spent the beginning of the evening variously in the kitchen and on the countertops and the floor, and later in the night repaired to the living room studio. By then, Zach was drunk enough that he tottered as he walked, but Michael and Justin seemed to be doing just fine. Zach wasn’t sure where they’d developed their stomach for it; had there been drinking going on at Hogwarts that he wasn’t invited to?

“So are you really starting a band?” Michael asked. “That why there’re all these instruments and paper about the place?”

“We’ve written two songs,” Justin said. “Two whole songs! Zach, play Michael a song.”

“On what?”

Zach picked up his bass and brandished it as best he could. “Pays to have a cashed up mate. Check this out.”

He fumbled for a pick in his pockets and came up empty, so Zach went for his fingers. He played the bassline to _She Bangs The Drums_. It was the song he knew best. Even drunk, he did a decent job of it.

“One of _our_ songs,” Justin said.

“You need to get your guitar. I’m going to keep playing this until you get the guitar.”

“Oh, for—”

Justin nearly tripped over his own feet, picking up the semi-acoustic and plugging it in. “I’m pants at this. Really, when you think of how fast Zach managed to… I feel like I’m still a… fledgling. A baby bird.”

“You don’t have to play well,” Zach said, “if you’re singing at the same time. No-one expects that.”

“Aren’t you a delight. Alright—which should we play?”

They settled on the first song they’d written, an untitled upbeat number with lyrics about prejudice and not fitting in. This was no less than Zach deserved for forcing Justin to write the lyrics. He would have to cope with all the trite platitudes. At least Justin was pleasant to listen to. A little too choirboy for Britpop, but it was early days still.

The song didn’t have a strong ending. Zach envisioned it as the kind that would fade out on the album version, which was no excuse for a poor live performance, so he kept it to himself. Michael was scrutinising them with his lips pursed.

“Well?” Justin said.

“I imagine it’s better when you’re sober.”

“Yeah, much better,” Zach said. “Really better for you not to judge us when we’re—”

“Having said that,” Michael interrupted, “it’s bloody good for your first song. You’ve really been doing nothing but sitting around and making music, haven’t you?”

“And listening to music. We’re absorbing it.” Justin was actually preening. “I suppose you’re regretting spurning us, Michael.”

“Does the band have a name yet?”

“Might do,” Zach said, “if you join it.”

Michael swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. Alright, fuck, you’ve convinced me. I’ll join.”

Justin raised a palm for a high five; Zach ignored it. He said, “Bring your guitar around tomorrow, and make sure you don’t regret it when you’re sober.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Michael said. “I’ll owl Kevin.”

 

* * *

 

Were there any bands with only three members? Zach wasn’t sure. He knew from Michael’s CDs that all the _good_ bands had at least four. Either way, with Kevin there, it felt like the whole endeavour really clicked into place. Justin bought Michael a new guitar, and Kevin brought with him a drum kit—he’d sooner set the townhouse on fire than let Justin spend any money on him, like the good working class lad he was—and a stack of CDs to further Zach’s musical education. He didn’t listen to much Britpop, but the stuff that had come before it.

The night Kevin arrived, once Michael had gone home and Kevin had passed out from exhaustion after his long train ride, it was just Zach and Justin in the living room again. Zach put on _The Queen Is Dead_ because he fancied the title, and by the end of it he and Justin were lying on the living room floor in a state of existential detachment from the rest of the world.

“That’s the thing,” Justin said. “When life is ghastly, at least there’s music.”

“Don’t suppose you could make yourself sound like the fellow in the Smiths?”

It was one of the things about the band that hadn’t settled yet. Justin was a choirboy. When Zach listened to Pulp, he felt like he was cutting about in a velvet robe with an army of admirers waiting for him to spare them a glance and maybe condescend to shag them if they were lucky. Justin’s angelic falsetto made Zach feel like he was at a funeral.

“What’s wrong with my voice?”

Zach pursed his lips. “Nothing.”

The next day, Kevin was back early, and he and Zach assembled the drum kit in the living room while Justin cooked breakfast—not a regular occurrence, but it was the staff’s day off. Justin was not a spectacular chef—growing up in a fully-staffed manor tended to do that to people—but he at least knew how to crack eggs and scramble them until they were just short of dry.

“Must be quite the lifestyle,” Kevin remarked. “Posh and Posher cohabiting in Sloane heartland. Can’t imagine how I’ll fit in.”

“Bet it’s nicer than anything you’re used to down in wherever it is you’re from.”

“I’m from—”

“How’d you get your drum kit up, anyway?”

“It’s this thing called magic, mate, don’t know if you’ve heard of it. I had my dad put a those spells on my case to make it bigger on the inside. Like a TARDIS.”

“What’s that?” When Kevin opened his mouth to respond, Zach said, “No, never mind, I don’t care. I suppose that’s a seventh year charm.”

“Suppose so.”

Justin came back into the living room with with three precarious plates of scrambled eggs stacked precariously on a fine wooden tray. “How are we getting along?”

“Swimmingly,” Kevin said, putting on a plummy accent. “I’ve gotta say—I’m surprised. I barely know you two, and yet here we are, all getting along and ready to make some tunes. I’ve been saying to Michael since third year we should start a band, ever since I found out he played the guitar.”

“I’ll bet he shouted you down too,” Zach said.

Kevin shrugged. “Michael’s like that. Always wants to put himself out there, but never unless he knows he can win.”

“Being in a band isn’t about winning,” Justin said, at the same time as Zach said, “Good thing we’re going to be the best band ever, isn’t it?”

Justin frowned at Zach. Zach grinned.

Kevin stared at the both of them.

“You’re nuts,” he said. “I hope your songs are better than your jokes.”

“We’ll play you one,” Zach said.

Justin pushed his breakfast aside and pulled his guitar onto his lap. “Ready when you are.”

 

* * *

 

Most nights, it was only Justin and Zach. Kevin liked their company, he said, but not that much. He went to bed early and didn’t mind if Zach called him boring, which was not a particularly good trait for a drummer to have, but they would work on it. Kevin also didn’t drink all that much. Zach and Justin were getting through quite a lot of the booze between them.

Zacharias was developing more of a stomach for alcohol. He had become rather enamoured with being drunk. It distracted him from the news about attacks on Muggles in the Prophet; it distracted him from most things, actually. It left him free enough from the shackles of inhibition that he could articulate one of the things that had been on his mind since they’d started their band.

“So here’s the problem,” Zach said. He’d had a couple of beers—he’d lost count. “When you sing… you’re not…”

“Not what?” Justin demanded. There was no discernible difference between him now and him sober.

Zach put a finger to his lips. He had to phrase this right. “You’re not a frontman. You know.”

“No, I don’t know. I can sing, I can hold a melody, I think I have rather a good grasp of relative pitch… precisely what is wrong with me?”

“I knew you’d take this badly,” Zach said, amused. “It’s something more essential than being able to sing. You’re a great singer. And you make a good sound, for a choir. This is a pop band.”

“So I need to sing with a different tone? Maybe if I have a glass of wine before I go on stage I’ll be rougher around the edges.”

It was sweet that Justin thought he might ever be described as “rough around the edges.”

“I had a different angle in mind. How do you feel about Jarvis Cocker?”

“How do I _feel_ about him?” Justin’s eyes were wide. “Not to be crude, Zacharias, but I’d do him in a heartbeat.”

“Not crude at all. Alright. How do you feel about people feeling about you the way you feel about him?”

Justin took a moment to parse that. “I suppose I wouldn’t hate it.” He took a quick sip of his beer. “You want me to be sexier?”

“If you think you can.”

“I don’t know,” Justin said. “I might need some… help.”

Zach swallowed. His bottle was empty. “What kind of help?”

They were sitting cross-legged and side by side on the Persian rug—good for acoustics—close enough that their knees touched whenever one of them shifted. Justin put his beer down and leant in, his nose brushing against Zach’s, lips seconds away but shying away from making the first move.

Zach had never been kissed. He had thought about it, a lot, and maybe a little more of late, if he was being honest. He never imagined his first kiss would be on a Persian rug in a townhouse in Chelsea, surrounded by musical equipment and empty beer bottles. In for a knut, and all that. He got rid of the space between them and pressed his lips to Justin’s, which was not how kissing worked, but it was a start. Justin, who had evidently also never been kissed, held the pose for all of five seconds before having a go at moving his lips. Zach stuck his tongue out and licked Justin’s teeth. It tasted terrible. Kissing was awful. Zach rather liked it.

“Sexier?” Justin asked.

All Zach could do was nod.

 

* * *

 

Like playing the bassline to _She Bangs The Drums_ for an hour straight until your fingers are calloused and you never want to hear the song again, making out until your lips are the weird kind of sticky and you were actually a little bored turned out to be a very good way to get good at kissing. And like playing the bassline to _She Bangs The Drums_ for an hour straight until you got bored of it, making out was suddenly very interesting again the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that again, when Michael was gone and Kevin went to bed early as usual, and Zach and Justin ended up doing quite a bit more than just making out.

The difference was tangible—Justin started doing things like putting his hands on his hips whenever he wasn’t playing the guitar, and dragging them upwards, rumpling his shirt. It was very distracting. The first time he did it in front of the whole band, Kevin dropped his drumsticks in the middle of a bar and had a coughing fit. Michael hadn’t been watching.

“Bloody hell,” Kevin said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

Zach opened his mouth to take all the credit, but Justin cut over him: “I got my hands on a Pulp VHS—I guess you could say I’m learning by example.”

Never mind that Zach had been the one who’d found the video, and that it had all been his idea in the first place. He grimaced. Fine, Justin didn’t want anyone to know they were shagging. Zach could live with that.

“From the top again?” he said.

“Oh, let’s only go for another half hour,” Justin said. “I had a call this morning while you two were bickering over the tomatoes; the London Fletchleys have caught wind that I’m in town, so I’m hosting dinner tonight, apparently. We’ll tidy up this room, and then you’ll all have to clear out.”

Zach groaned. “Ugh. What an imposition.”

“It’s fine by me,” Michael said. “Anthony’s coming back this afternoon, so I was planning on paying him a visit anyway.”

“We could come too,” Zach said.

Michael gave him a look. “Oh, now you’re interested.”

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating,” Zach said, “but it costs you nothing to shut up about it.”

This was the wrong thing to say, because now Justin was giving Zach a look too, and it was a much worse look than Michael’s look. This meant that, for the rest of their rehearsal, Justin was frosty _and_ sexy, which was a very dangerous combination for Zach and Kevin’s hand-eye co-ordination. This put Michael in a bad mood too, and by the time they were done tidying up and the three of them left for Anthony’s, none of them were talking to each other.

Kevin proved himself the most mature—he broke the silence when they got to Anthony’s front door. “Bet he’ll be right jealous. You know, we’ve been living the high life.”

“Kev, you’re in a band that’s never even played a gig,” Michael said. “That’s hardly something to write home about.”

“Should’ve brought my bass,” Zach said.

Michael said, “Why, so you can serenade Anthony with _She Bangs The Drums_?” and Zach punched him in the arm just as Anthony opened the front door.

“Fighting already? You know what—I don’t want to know what you two are doing here.”

“You two” being Zach and Kevin, not native Londoners, but Anthony would find out eventually, as he always did when any of his friends did something stupid. He’d been on a power trip for the last two years, ever since he got his Prefect’s badge.

“Well, come on in,” Anthony said. “My parents are sleeping off their jetlag. I’ll put some silencing charms up so we can be as loud as we want.”

“Pity this isn’t an official band rehearsal,” Kevin said, with such forced nonchalance that Zach wanted to hit him.

“Oh, you’re finally in a band?”

Michael sighed, but he made a big show of it, so Zach reckoned he wanted to boast too. “We all are. Smith’s idea, if you can believe it. Saw some knock-off Britpop live and it opened his third eye, or some shit.”

“My third eye is no laughing matter,” Zach said. “Neither is our band.”

“How sweet,” Anthony said. “Do you have a name?”

The three of them looked between each other.

Anthony cleared his throat. “Well, there’s still time to brainstorm. I know about these two—Smith, what do you play?”

“Bass,” he said. “And we’ve got Justin on vocals and rhythm guitar.”

“You said a lot of words I know, but that sentence didn’t make any sense.” Anthony laughed at his own joke. “Alright, well, make yourselves at home, within reason. I’ll go and fix us drinks.”

“I’ll help,” Zach said, and gave Michael the finger over his shoulder as he followed, because he knew what Michael was going to say, and he didn’t need to hear it.

Anthony’s kitchen was homey and, for the most part, empty, since the occupants of the house had been away for some weeks. While Anthony was rifling around in a cupboard, Zach leant against the counter, trying to look as suave as he felt whenever he remembered that he was quite literally in a band.

“You didn’t have to help,” Anthony said, putting four glasses on a tray. “I mean, there’s nothing for you to do.”

Zach shrugged. “I’ve been staying at Justin’s townhouse. There’s never anything to do because he keeps a chef chained up in the basement, or something.”

“Gothic,” Anthony said. He gave Zach a long look, sizing him up. “Is Justin really frontman material or are you just letting him sing in the band because he’s letting you crash his place?”

“He’s not that bad. Anyway, he bought us some slick equipment. Got Corner a new guitar and everything.”

“Of course he did.”

“And I shagged him,” Zach said, hating himself but watching closely for Anthony’s reaction anyway.

There was no reaction, and there was nothing staged about it—Anthony really didn’t care. “Am I meant to be jealous?”

“No,” Zach said. He pulled a face. “Why would you be jealous? Fuck, don’t be stupid. I mean it’s not like—”

Anthony cut him off with a finger to the lips. Looking down at him like this, Zach realised abruptly and uncomfortably that Justin and Anthony both had curly brown hair, and he had a type.

“Zacharias,” Anthony said, his face alive with an amused smile, “do you _want_ me to be jealous?”

Zach was so monumentally fucked. “Why would I,” he said, and when he spoke his lips were forced to move against Anthony’s finger, “want you to jealous?”

Anthony brought his finger back and tapped it against his chin, humming. “No reason. Better get these drinks back before the others wonder if we’ve been kidnapped.”

This was the worst thing that had ever happened to Zach, since a few hours ago when Justin had refused to acknowledge the fact that Zach was entirely responsible for his new image. Zach followed Anthony back into the living room like a ghost. Everything was out of focus—then something caught his eye.

“Ant—is that a piano?”

“Yeah, it’s an upright grand,” Anthony said proudly.

“Can you play it?” Zach followed up.

Anthony looked uncharacteristically embarrassed. “I—uh—yes? I’m not anything special at it, though. I mean I never made it past seventh grade before I went off to Hogwarts, and then I guess I stopped practising as much—these days I’ve lost all the music I had in my memory, I have to sight-read—”

“You can play the piano,” Zach said, and he thought of The Shoplifters, Jenny on her keyboard at stage left. “You could join our band.”

“Perfect, mate,” Michael said, slapping Anthony on the back. “We’ll get more of a Pulp sound than Blur, but that’s great. That’s fucking ideal.”

“I’m classically trained,” Anthony said, more flustered by the minute. “I couldn’t possibly play in a band.”

“If we turned Justin into a frontman, we can do anything,” Kevin said.

“Right,” Zach said. “We have our methods.”

Anthony must have picked up on the subtext. He laughed. “Okay, fuck it! Yeah. I’ll join the fucking band.”

 

* * *

 

Because you couldn’t just tell a Muggle to owl you, Zach had given Nick Michael’s number, and then had promptly forgotten he’d done it, because he’d been drunk at the time. Michael had called Justin’s place that morning to tell Zach that Nick had called to ask Zach if he wanted to head out that night, and Michael’s poor confused mother had answered the phone. This was hardly Zach’s fault, but Michael was in a foul mood anyway, so band practice was cancelled. The upshot of this was that it was Saturday night, and Zach was heading out that night to meet Nick, Rav, and Jenny at a club.

“How’s London treating you?” Nick asked. The two of them were waiting while the others picked up drinks, and they had to shout over the crowd. There’d be a band on stage in a few minutes, and then they wouldn’t be able to talk at all.

“Oh, you know, it’s alright,” Zach said. “Moved in with a posh mate in Chelsea and started a band.”

“Piss off. You didn’t.”

“Did. Got myself a bass and all.”

“And are you any good?”

Zach shrugged. “We’re alright. It’s a five piece, like you lot. We’re trying to sound like Pulp.”

Nick clapped him on the back. When Rav and Jenny got back, he said, “Hey, Zach started a band!”

“Sick,” Rav said, handing them a pint each. “What’s your name?”

“Don’t have one yet,” Zach said.

“Get one by next week. We’ve got this venue booked; we could squeeze you into support.”

“Shouldn’t we hear what they sound like first?” Jenny said.

“There’ll only be time for about five songs,” Rav said. “If they suck, it’ll be life experience. If they’re good, we’ll invite them back. What do you say, Zach?”

“Yes. Of course fucking yes. What kind of question is th—”

He was cut off by tonight’s band coming onto stage and the crowd cheering. Zach imagined what it would be like on the other side of this roar of sound. Being on the Quidditch pitch was one thing; you were way above the crowd and you couldn’t focus on them or you’d get thrown off your game. This was a more symbiotic relationship. It seemed like a bit of a power trip, honestly. Zach could wait a week for this.

When the band was done playing, he followed the others out of the club. The night air was fresh with light rain.

“We’re going dancing,” Jenny said. “Coming, Zach?”

As much as he wanted to, it was getting late, and he was just tipsy enough that he’d stopped being mad about Justin not wanting to tell anyone they’d shagged. “Sorry, we’ve got practice early tomorrow. I want the band to be in good form for next Saturday.”

“Good lad,” Rav said.

“I’ll give you some E,” Nick said. “For the road.”

Zach had enough social nouse not to ask what that meant. Nick reached into his pocket and got out a zip-lock bag stuffed with a bunch of chalky tablets, and a smaller zip-lock bag, into which he decanted five of them. He handed it to Zach; there was some sort of symbol imprinted on the pills, but Zach couldn’t tell what it was meant to be.

“One for each of your band. Make sure you drink lots of water.”

“And don’t get hooked,” Jenny added. “These don’t grow on trees.”

“I already know all of this,” Zach said. He hoped they couldn’t tell he was posturing.

“Sure,” Nick said. “See you in a week.”

 

* * *

 

With their gig with The Shoplifters coming up, Zach’s band were practising harder than ever. They’d been too busy to sample Nick’s pills.

The band still didn’t have a name, but they had more than five songs to pick between for their set, and a strong, coherent sound. It helped, he supposed, that they were doing nothing else with their time. Zach, Justin, and Kevin in particular were isolated from the outside world, venturing from the townhouse only to pick up food. Michael passed on the news from his parents, and Anthony had a subscription to the Prophet. He brought it by sometimes; Zach could never be bothered reading it. The news was so depressing lately.

It was Friday night. They had been practising all day, and now Michael and Anthony had gone home, Kevin was sleeping, and it was just Zach and Justin in the studio, sitting on the floor and writing more songs.

“I know we should be focusing on the ones we have,” Justin said, strumming a mournful minor chord. “It’s just so exciting. All of this. I don’t know when I was last this happy.”

“Might I have something to do with that?” Zach hazarded.

Justin smirked. “You really want to take all the credit, don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Zach said. “But only because, technically, I was the one who helped you with this.”

“I ought to thank you for that.”

“I’ll settle for another kiss.”

“Greedy,” Justin said, but kissed him anyway.

They were much better at this now. Zach leant in and tangled his fingers in Justin’s curls. Justin made a noise, and pushed his guitar off his lap, which gave Zach room to run a hand up Justin’s leg. It was just the two of them. This could go further again.

It probably would’ve, too, if Anthony hadn’t Apparated straight into the living room.

“Oh—shit, sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said. He was on his feet, but barely. His hair was a mess and he looked like death; he staggered backwards. “I’ll just—I’m—”

“It’s fine,” Justin said, prising Zach’s hand off his thigh. “What’s wrong?”

Anthony didn’t respond right away, catching his breath. “It’s—the Minister’s been murdered. The Death Eaters have taken over. Where’s Kevin? Is he safe?”

“Kevin’s sleeping,” Zach said. “How do you know all this?”

“Padma got in touch with me; she’s got family in the Ministry. Well—not any longer. Most of the dissenters are in hiding, or hiding their views. We need protective spells around this place. They’re going to come for Muggleborns.”

Justin paled. Zach reached to take his hand, only to find that Anthony had also held his out—both his hands—and Justin had taken them both. Zach glared at Anthony, but Anthony wasn’t even looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony said. “I don’t think you’ll be able to go back to Hogwarts.”

“Oh well, I was never top of any classes.” Justin’s voice wavered. “I’m sure I’ll do much better out here in the Muggle world as the—as the frontman of a—”

He broke off, shaking with silent sobs. Zach put an arm around Justin’s shoulders and held tight; Justin rested his head in the crook of Zach’s neck.

Zach had made up his mind. “If you don’t go back, I won’t either. We’ll make a go of it with our band. Are you in, Ant?”

“It depends on what happens next, whether or not a resistance can be brought together in time, and—”

Zach glared at him.

“Of course I’m in. Of course.”

Justin let out a wail, and now he was crying properly, getting his messy tears all over Zach’s shirt.

“My dad’s Muggleborn,” Anthony continued. “He and my mum are getting out of the country tonight. We were on holiday scouting out locations—in case something like this happened. Do you mind if I stay here tonight?”

“For as long as you need,” Justin said.

Zach knew that things were dire, but all that he could think was the irrational thought that Justin seemed to like Anthony much better than him. He wondered if it would take the end of the world to get him to care about politics. Their gig was a much more pressing issue. Zach wondered what Nick’s pills were like.

 

* * *

 

The club they were playing at was in South London, well outside of even Michael and Anthony’s stomping ground, so they all took to it with some trepidation. Except Zach, of course, because he had been there before, and he refused to show fear. This was his scene.

They had driven down in a van, Justin’s purchase, with Kevin at the wheel. All of their things were in the back. Justin kept saying, “I’m so glad one of us can drive,” because he hadn’t known that when he’d splashed out on the van five days ago without telling any of them.

It was all quiet this early in the day. Since they were opening, they would have to set up first, but when they got into the venue Zach was relieved to see that the three fifths of The Shoplifters who he knew best were hanging around already.

“Alright, Zach,” Nick said. “This your band?”

“Yeah,” Zach said. When Nick put it like that, Zach felt as though he was almost overflowing with pride. He stayed aloof.

“Still so impressed you got a group together so quickly,” Jenny said. “It’s like magic.”

“More like he’s mental,” Rav muttered, but he clapped Zach on the arm. “Good on you, mate.”

Zach coloured. “Well, this lot were all musical already. I’m the only one who had to pull it together.”

“Don’t talk yourself up,” Michael said, kicking him in the back of the shin.

Zach tried to ignore him, but Nick said, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” so he had to make some effort.

“If I must. Lads, this is Nick, Rav, Jenny. Shoplifters, these are my bandmates, Mike, Kev, Ant, and… Justin.”

“ _Such_ a pleasure,” Justin said, and was it Zach’s imagination or was he turning up the toff for the occasion? Justin was met with blank stares, so he added, “I’m the frontman.”

“We should go get set up,” Zach said quickly. “We’ll talk afterwards.”

“Wait,” Rav said, “we need a name to put on the sign out front.”

They had talked about this. None of them had read the Prophet that morning. Didn’t need to. There was a universal consensus among the members of the band that their name had to be something political, in these trying times. Well, it was a consensus among everyone but Zach, who just wanted something short, like Pulp. There was a shortlist of dirty, subversive words, a tally of votes and preferences, but now, when it counted, everyone was silent.

“We have a tentative name,” Zach said. “Slurry.”

Rav nodded. “Nice one. I’ll pencil it in.”

“Ugh,” Kevin said, once The Shoplifters were gone, “that was my least favourite.”

Zach stuck out his tongue. “Speak up next time.”

 

* * *

 

This is what it was like on stage: the lights went down and the faces in the crowd blended to nothing; the spotlights were turned on and it was blinding if you looked at them from the wrong angle. They were louder than they had ever been—Michael had talked to the guy at the sound desk about the mix, whatever that meant. The stage was small but there was just enough room for Zach to move about, which he’d seen Michael doing when they practised, and which he thought probably looked incredibly cool from the audience. He hovered by the keyboard and drums for a bit, stood a bit too close to Justin, and back to back with Michael during one of his guitar solos. He played his heart out—especially in their cover of _She Bangs The Drums_ —and he could feel that the others were too. They played with the precision of a band who’d put in countless hours, and knew it would pay off.

When they finished, the audience went mad for them. Zach could live his entire life like this.

Heading backstage, they passed The Shoplifters, who’d been getting ready in the wings. “What did you think?” Zach asked.

“I hope you never open for us again,” Nick said. “If you get any better, you’ll show us up.”

Zach was glowing. He didn’t want to open for The Shoplifters again, or anyone else. He wanted to headline. He wanted to play for magical audiences.

He ran this idea by the rest of his band later that night. The skies were clear, so they’d driven the van to a park and set up under the moonlight with beer from the pub, and kebabs from a late-night takeaway place near the pub.

“You’re mental,” was Michael’s assessment of the plan. “Where would we play? The fucking Hog’s Head?”

“There’s no crowd in Hogsmeade for this kind of music,” Kevin said, “just a bunch of old coots sitting around Warbeck on the wireless. We’d need to play the Leaky Cauldron for a real crowd.”

Anthony wasn’t sold at all. “Showing our faces in front of a crowd of wizards is a terrible idea in this climate. In case you’d forgotten, two of us are Muggleborn.”

“And you’re not one of them,” Kevin said. Anthony clammed up.

“I think it would be powerful,” Justin said. “Let everybody know we’re not scared.”

Kevin laughed. “I’m shitting myself, actually. But let’s do it.”

Zach put his arm out in front of him, palm down. Justin clicked first, and put his hand on Zach’s, then Michael, Kevin, and at length, Anthony.

“Here’s to Slurry,” Zach said, “and to many more successful shows.”

He pushed his hand up and the others followed suit, shouting and whooping and disturbing the quiet night. It was fine—there were only birds and Muggles about. They’d be safe.

 

* * *

 

With four of them living at the Chelsea townhouse now, Michael stayed over more nights than not. His owl had moved in too. He’d told his siblings he was in a band now, and they thought it was the coolest thing ever. Anthony rigged up the front door to respond to a password, and Justin, for his part, had sent all the house’s staff away, so it really was a safehouse for the five of them. It made Zach feel a bit like a secret agent.

The novelty didn’t last long. Soon after the news that the Ministry had been infiltrated, there came word that they were rounding up Muggleborns for registration. Kevin and Justin, for all intents and purposes, couldn’t exist in public. Their plans for a gig were on hold. Anthony, whose Muggle grandparents had fled Germany in the 1930s, got into the habit of isolating himself as soon as it got dark outside. Justin had stopped writing songs, and because Justin was down, Zach wasn’t getting any, and he was incredibly frustrated about it.

“What we all need,” Michael said, “is a bit of fun.”

Nobody said anything at first. They were sitting around the dinner table, poking at their mid-rate charcoal chicken from a shop around the block. The food was cold by the time they got it home and none of them had been bothered to heat it up.

“You know I don’t really drink,” Kevin said.

“What about drugs?” Zach asked.

Michael snorted. “You don’t know anything about drugs.”

“Give me a second.”

Zach got up from the table and dashed up to his bedroom, where he’d been keeping the zip-lock bag full of pills in a sock at the bottom of his suitcase, waiting for the right occasion.

“These are from Nick,” he said. “We’re supposed to take them with water.”

Kevin snatched up the bag and squinted at it. “Holy shit. Is this ecstasy? I think this is fucking ecstasy.”

Anthony took it from him and opened the bag, peering in.

“You’re not meant to take them with water, necessarily,” Kevin said. “He probably meant that you ought to drink a lot of water to stay hydrated.”

“I guess,” Zach said.

“These really are drugs,” Anthony said. “Unbelievable. Of all the tricks I might’ve expected you to have up your sleeve…”

“Well, I’m game,” Justin said. “How bad can it be? I mean, it’s called _ecstasy_.”

Michael took the bag next, poking at the pills. Apparently Ravenclaws were fascinated by things like this. “I’m up for it too. I’ve heard it’s called ecstasy because it makes you really happy.”

“God knows we could all use a bit of that,” Kevin said.

“Let’s not do it in the studio,” Justin said, “in case we get so happy we smash up our equipment.”

They settled in the master bedroom, where Justin was sleeping. It was the second biggest room in the house. There was an expansive four-poster bed; it made Zach almost nostalgic for Hogwarts. They filled up every jug they could find with cold water and carried it up, placed it around the bed, then sat on the bed in a circle. All good rituals happened in circles.

Zach shook the contents of the bag onto the palm of his hand and held it out. One by one, the others took a pill each.

“I think one of us should stay sober, like a designated driver,” Anthony said. He had the pill pinched between his fingers and he was eyeing it warily. “In case anything goes terribly wrong.”

“Coward,” Zach said.

As a consequence of this, Anthony was the first one to swallow his pill.

It took a while to kick in. Zach kept checking his watch to see how long it’d been. Nothing was happening. He drank so much water, just for something to do with his hands, and half an hour in he had to run to the bathroom.

He had only recently first experienced the utterly transcendent sensation of having a slash while you were drunk—there was something uniquely dizzying about it, like floating gently through a field of cotton wool. He wondered if this was the same sort of thing. He zipped up his fly and by the time he made it to the tap to wash his hands it had been five years or it had been five seconds, he couldn’t tell which. His bones were all gone and he was a being of pure light and air. Had he been like this all along, hidden from himself by the veil of reality? This was absolutely thrilling. Zach had to get back to the others right away to inform them of what he’d just discovered.

He ran down the corridor and burst back into the bedroom, and was immediately accosted by Kevin. “Zach, Zach, have you felt it?”

“I’m feeling it right now,” Zach said. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“It’s so amazing, I could kiss you.”

“Then kiss me,” Zach said. He had never once in his life thought that kissing Kevin Entwhistle would be something he was interested in, but right now it seemed like the best idea in the world. He could kiss Kevin. Oh, he could kiss anyone he wanted to!

Once he had kissed Kevin—which was incredible, ecstatic, the best kiss of his life—Zach returned to the bed to find Anthony and Justin collapsed all over each other, giggling, and Michael sitting against the headboard with his arms folded.

Michael glared at Zach. “Hasn’t kicked in yet.”

“Maybe I should kiss you,” Zach said. “Did you know that most things can be transmitted by kissing?”

“Please don’t kiss me,” Michael said.

“Okay. I’m going to kiss you.”

Michael shook his head, and when he came back to resting, his eyes were wide. “Oh!” he said, and kissed Zach. _This_ one was the best.

“You know what,” Kevin said, “I take it back. If I said anything about not wanting to do a gig at the Cauldron anymore. We should do it.”

“That’s right!” Justin said, surfacing from the corner he and Anthony had claimed. “Fuck the law! I’ll be a Muggleborn in public if I damn well want to, and there’s fuck all they can do about it.”

“Untouchable,” Kevin said. “We’re untouchable.”

Michael didn’t have anything to add. He had become deeply fascinated by the floral pattern on one of Justin’s pillowcases. He was counting the flowers in each row.

Zach cleared his throat. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s write a letter to the Leaky Cauldron. What date should we do? How about the last day of August? Is that the thirtieth or the thirty-first?”

“The thirtieth is a Saturday, so that’s better,” Anthony said.

Justin’s fingers were tracing out patterns on Anthony’s arm. “How do you know that?”

“I know everything,” Anthony said. He was still giggling. “I know everything that’s ever been known, the past and future—I have communed with eternity!”

“And you didn’t want to take any,” Zach said.

Anthony grabbed Zach by the arm and pulled him down in between himself and Justin. “I saw that too,” he said. “I knew I would in the end.”

Kevin had got to his feet; he was off the bed, jumping up and down, his jaw clenched in determination. “I’m getting paper! I’m getting paper and a pen! Or a quill. Maybe a quill. Let’s write to them!”

“Flowers,” Michael said. “Bloody unbelievable.”

 

* * *

 

_Dear “Slurry”,_

_Thank you for your very enthusiastic interest. We are unbooked on the 30th of August, which is indeed a Saturday. Please write back to confirm._

_\- Guinevere Stuart, Leaky Cauldron Management_

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck did we write to them?” Michael was squinting at the reply from the Cauldron over breakfast the next morning. “I don’t remember anything that happened last night.”

“It is my great misfortune to inform you that I remember everything,” Anthony said. It was the middle of the summer, and he was draped in a blanket as heavy as the bags under his eyes.

Kevin made a face that indicated he remembered too, as he had been the one who wrote the letter. He did not look impressed. He couldn’t say anything, though, as he had been clenching his jaw all night, and now it hurt him to move it.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Justin said. “We’re being brave revolutionaries, and we’re playing a gig at the Leaky Cauldron to show the world that we don’t give a damn what the Ministry thinks of people like us, and people who associate with people like us, and whatnot. We’re the real slurry of the magical world.”

“Also, I kissed all of you,” Zach said.

“We can still back out.” Michael grimaced. “Of the Cauldron, I mean. We don’t have to write back to confirm.”

“I want to,” Justin said. Kevin nodded enthusiastically, and then winced, cradling his jaw.

Michael glared at Anthony, who shrugged sheepishly. “Justin’s right. It’s a statement. That’s what the magical world needs right now.

“Well, Smith, I hope you’re happy,” Michael said. He stood from the table. “You wanted to start a band. Now you’re running another Dumbledore’s Army.”

“You were the one who wanted to have a bit of fun,” Zach pointed out.

“That’s all this is to you?”

“All it needs to be,” Zach said. “Come on, you can’t back out now.”

They stared each other down. At length, the stand-off came to an end; Michael sat back at the table. “Fine. _Fine_. Let’s write them back.”

All that was left to do was practice like mad. That afternoon, Zach put together a list of every wrong note he remembered from their first gig. They stayed holed up in the studio to work on it. By the end of the day, Kevin could talk again, and he had his own list of things he thought they should work on. Michael called his parents to tell them he’d be away for a few more days—and not to worry, he wasn’t in an illegal teen revolutionary group again. Just a band.

Late that night, the townhouse fell back into its familiar routine. Quiet upstairs, and Zach and Justin alone in the studio. Not making out, or anything, although Zach would’ve preferred it. He wasn’t ready to give up on Justin yet. The timing was wrong, that was all.

It was deathly quiet outside, too cold for a summer night. Inside, Justin asked Zach, “You really don’t care about what’s happening, do you?”

“I disagree with what the Ministry’s doing, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean you don’t want to play the Cauldron because of what we’re standing up against. You want to do it for the fame.”

“So what?” Zach said.

Justin didn’t have an answer for that.

 

* * *

 

The Leaky Cauldron had been transformed. Guinevere, the pub’s manager, had managed to find a single electrical outlet, to the shock of the rest of the staff. It wasn’t next to the usual stage for live performances, so they’d needed to clear a lot of space, but one outlet was enough to plug in a power board, into which were plugged five other power boards, then all their amps and the keyboard. Anthony was fretting; he kept calling it a safety hazard, whatever that meant.

There had been only a little advertising in the days leading up to the gig. Zach had taken out an advert in the Prophet: _SLURRY - LIVE AT THE LEAKY - 8PM AUGUST 30TH - FRESH NEW BRITPOP!_ He’d also put it in the Quibbler, although he doubted they’d get much of a crowd from that demographic. For the rest, they’d decided to rely on word of mouth. Zach had wanted to invite The Shoplifters, but this would’ve been a breach of the International Statute of Secrecy, and he didn’t fancy getting sent to Azkaban with Death Eaters in charge.

The early crowd were all regulars at the pub, curious about all the Muggle technology; the stage had to be roped off to stop people from poking around. One of the first of the actual audience to arrive was Terry.

“I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to join your band,” was how he greeted them. “I had to hear about this from Padma!”

“You’re tone deaf,” Michael reminded him.

Terry went red. “Still!”

Other familiar faces, people perhaps more friendly with the rest of the band than with Zach, showed up eventually—Padma and Parvati, Susan, Hannah, Wayne. Even Ernie came, although he made it very clear that he did not approve of popular music and would rather be absolutely anywhere else. Zach spotted Luna Lovegood in the crowd; the advert in the Quibbler had done some good after all.

There were notable absences, too. Muggleborns.

As eight o’clock drew nigh, the band left the crowd and hopped over the rope onto their makeshift stage. There was no mixing desk in here, so they took time to tune their guitars to the keyboard and adjust the amps’ volume until everything sounded balanced. There were no spotlights, just the candles that floated around the room. And there was no raucous applause; there was the clinking of glasses, low chatter in the background, some curious muttering from the assembled audience.

Justin tapped his microphone, and then stepped back. “I think you should introduce us, Zacharias.” He moved aside so that Zach could get to the middle, tethered by his guitar lead.

“Right,” Zach said. This was off script, but he could improvise. “Er, evening, all. Friends and acquaintances and people off the street—however you found us, thanks for coming. We’re Slurry. This is going to be the best show you’ve ever seen.”

From somewhere behind him, he heard Kevin say, “Fucking hell.” Zach gave Kevin the middle finger on the way back to his amp.

“We’re going to start with a cover,” Justin said. “This is some of the Muggle music that got us making music.” He paused; Zach knew he was smirking, because this was the part they’d rehearsed. “We love Muggles.”

Kevin started the count-in before the audience could react to that. One of the very first songs Zach had learnt to play was _She Bangs The Drums_. It started with the drums and bass; after a few repetitions of the riff, the guitars and keys joined in. According to Michael, it wasn’t Britpop, but it was the sound that had shaped the movement. Magical Britain was a few years late to the trend. Someone had to get it started.

The set started slow and, as the night wore on, the crowd warmed up to Slurry’s sound. Zach felt like something had changed on their side of the stage, too, though he couldn’t put a finger on what it was. They got through five songs—as many as they’d played supporting The Shoplifters—and maybe it was that when they started the sixth, it had sunk in that they were the headline act.

Halfway through their eighth song, the doors to the Leaky Cauldron clattered open and a gust of cold air blew in, and with it, loud, harsh voices and heavy foosteps. A few of the candles guttered out. Justin stopped singing, but the rest of them kept playing for a second longer. Michael had been in the middle of a solo.

“Shut this down!” someone was shouting, hidden behind the crowd. “We’ve got word you’re harbouring known mudbloods in here.”

Kevin had dropped his sticks and was clambering over the drumkit to get to them, saying, “Justin, Justin, we have to go.”

Justin turned to look at Zach, wide-eyed, frightened. Zach opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Justin’s expression steeled. He turned back to the mic.

“We have to go,” Kevin said, grabbing Justin’s wrist.

“Two things first,” Justin said. He hit the mic so hard it screeched, and then held it close to his mouth and shouted, “Fuck your prejudice!” Then he grabbed Zach by the collar and kissed him hard enough to bruise. He whispered, “See you soon.”

There was a loud pop, and Justin and Kevin disappeared. Tethered by a lead, Justin’s guitar fell to the ground where he’d been standing, a crack forming down its wooden body.

Still reeling from what was definitely the best kiss he’d ever had, Zach finally turned his attention back to the crowd. It was starting to disperse, people running. He caught sight of Michael, guitar abandoned, running to an exit with Terry and the Patil twins. Everyone was moving away from the stage, except for a troupe of people in black robes, wands raised—Death Eaters, Zach assumed—and one other person, a tall man in attire too fine to be see in a dive like this.

“Zacharias,” Anthony said, from behind him. “Zach, we have to get out of here.”

But Zach had made eye contact with his father storming to the front of the crowd, and his feet weren’t moving.

Anthony shook his shoulder. “Come on. What are you—”

“What are you doing here?” Zach’s father demanded, throwing the rope aside to storm onto the stage.

Zach finally got his head together and pulled his guitar off over his shoulder, handing it to a very confused Anthony.

“What does it look like?” Zach said. He didn’t ask how his father had found him. He supposed he was lucky it was happening now, and not a week ago, not a month ago.

“It looks to me like you’re making a fool of yourself and of your family in front of a crowd of good-for-nothings,” his father said. “Can you spin it any better than that?”

Zach folded his arms. Behind him, Anthony had set down the bass, and Disapparated. “I’m part of the revolution. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“You’re coming home. This silliness has gone on long enough.” Zach’s father looked over his shoulder at the approaching Death Eaters. “And I don’t want you getting mixed up on either side of this.”

Before Zach could do anything, his father had him by the wrist and took him side-along. It would have been harder to fight back. Justin would have fought back. As it was, Zach closed his eyes and let it happen. This was not the first time he’d taken the coward’s way out. It would not be the last.

 

* * *

 

On the first of September, Zach went back to Hogwarts. He had no choice, with his father watching over his every move, and with Justin and Kevin nowhere to be found. Well, that was not strictly true—Zach knew they’d be in the Chelsea townhouse. There were spells you could use to take a place right off the map.

It was only one more year. Zach could do one more year. He had three things to keep him sane. The first was notoriety—everybody knew he’d been in the band that tore up the Leaky Cauldron in August. He made sure everybody knew he was the one who’d had the idea, too. The second was friendship, for all that he’d spent years considering himself too good for it. It was Anthony and Michael in particular, who now understood him better than anyone.

The third was a clipping from a zine. It was a review of The Shoplifters’ gig on the 2nd of August, supported by a totally unknown band of teenagers called Slurry— _who played a short but impeccable set, full of big sounds and boundless energy, made even more special in hindsight by the fact that they haven’t been heard from since_.

One more year, and when it was over, Zach could find his friends and make music again.

In the meantime, there were signs around the school reading _Dumbledore’s Army: Still Recruiting_. Zach went back to it with more energy than he put into his schoolwork. He was beginning to think that this whole politics lark was worth his attention after all.


End file.
